The two female warders underwent a rigid cross-examination, but they both declared that they were as much in the dark as the governor himself.
The turnkeys were next questioned; they could throw no light on the subject. There was a great hubbub for the next few days, but not the faintest scrap of information could be obtained whereby the real culprit might be traced.
The governor was very irate; the warders were sulky, and everybody seemed to be discontented. Nevertheless, Laura Stanbridge had succeeded in her purpose.
She had cleverly given her janitors the go-by, and once more she experienced the inestimable blessing of liberty, and she was far too clever a woman to run the risk of being recaptured by any act of imprudence on her own part.
Meanwhile Mat Murdock remained in a precarious position. He was closely tended by Walter Knoulton, whose kindness and attention were duly appreciated by the pirate, who soon began to lend an attentive ear to the exhortations of the prison chaplain.
A change for the worse took place in the condition of the injured mariner some three or four days after the departure of Laura Stanbridge. Murdock was stricken with fever, and at times he was light-headed.
The night nurse who had been deputed to relieve Knoulton, worn out with fatigue and weary watching, was overcome with sleep, and, while in this condition, the pirate in one of his paroxysms leaped out of bed, wounded and wearied as he was, and caught hold of the iron bars which ran in front of the small window of his apartment and vainly strove to remove them.
He fell to the floor, exhausted and senseless, and it was not possible to say how long he had remained in that condition.
An alarm was given by his attendant when the discovery was made, and Murdock was placed again in bed, but his ultimate death may be attributable to this accident.
But he appeared to have but one dominant idea, this being the desire of escape.